


the person falling here is me

by freloux



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Intellectual stimulation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: Let us be books together, you and I...let us vow to stay companion volumes always.-"Dedication Page" by Jo Emeney.





	the person falling here is me

H.G. is never sure how Edgar is able to afford the mansion they live in. He knows from experience how writing isn't exactly the most lucrative job in the world - no matter how famous you were before or after your death.

But anyways, the place is big enough that he's still learning his way around. It doesn't help that he's a ghost now, because walls fade into walls, and doors don't matter. One room after the next, and pretty much all of them are filled with books. The whole house is basically a library. It's wonderful.

H.G. has a favorite mini-library, though. It's not far from his room, and lies between the living room and the kitchen. This library is tucked away, very quiet, and full of things written by Edgar's friends. It feels private. Safe. It's also got a big window that has a lovely view of the garden, framed by thick curtains that he can pull tight in the evening for extra coziness.

He often retreats there after dinner. H.G. is still getting used to the concept of small talk; he's never quite mastered it and is beginning to doubt that he ever will. Part of the problem is Lenore.

She's such a force of nature. He's both in awe of her and more than a little scared. It looks like conversation just comes to her so easily. Banter, that's the word. It makes her somewhat unpredictable, like talking is a kind of game to her.

He wants to keep up, but isn't sure how. So he starts reading, because that usually helps. He floats over to his secret, special library and picks up a few Ernest Hemingway novels. Maybe they can teach him how to be extra manly, although he thinks he'll skip the part about becoming a raging alcoholic.

Ultimately, he realizes that he just wants to impress her.

A few late nights and rehearsal later, he feels particularly brave. He waits eagerly for a gap in the conversation and jumps in with a witty (he thinks) pun about the news and a slightly boastful comment about the inventing projects that he's been up to. It feels weird. He's not used to bragging; he's much better at sort of waiting in the background and making quiet remarks every so often.

There's a horrible pause that stretches out, now, so he's starting to feel all prickly and uncomfortable. Edgar is staring at him.

And Lenore starts laughing, which is the worst thing of all. Finally she coughs to cover up her laughter and they go back to chatting quietly. Evidently Edgar is writing a new short story that he thinks will really take off: something about the "red death."

After dinner, H.G. floats back into the library (his library) and buries himself in an old copy of one of his own novels. He just gets lost in thought, without having to pretend to be something that he's not.

***

The next morning he gets breakfast very early and hides in the library again. He knows now that ghosts can go for a long time without eating, and even longer without sleep, but he doesn't care. He's always liked having a routine.

H.G. lulls himself into a relaxed coziness with the little shuffle-shuffle of turning pages and the distant chirping of the birds outside. He's reading _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ , which under any other circumstances would just be a return to a classic. But now he pictures Lenore instead of Connie: Lenore the one whimpering, expectant while he thrusts -

"Boo."

H.G. nearly jumps out of his skin. As it is, he yelps and practically flings the book he was reading across the room. He looks up and sees Lenore floating not far away. She giggles and floats over to the overstuffed armchair where he's sitting.

"Oh my god," she says. "That one never gets old. It always works on Edgar, but good to know that it works on you, too." She smirks.

"Not funny," H.G. says, retrieving his book and sitting back down. He frowns. "What do you want?"

"Nothing, really," Lenore says cheerfully. "I just like being annoying on purpose." She twirls a finger through her hair absentmindedly. "Oh, I guess there was something. You seemed kind of, well, spooked after dinner the other night. So I wanted you to know that I wasn't being mean to you. You were just trying so hard, and Hemingway really isn't a good look for you."

"You could tell?" H.G. asks warily.

" _Duh_ ," Lenore replies. She sits herself down on one of the arms of his chair and kicks her feet against the side. "Earnest has the whole 'I'm a man so I need to interrupt conversations and talk about how important I am' basically under copyright."

"Good to know." H.G. sighs and attempts to return to the book he was reading but knows it's a lost cause. Lenore has leaned in so she's kind of settled against his shoulder. It's one of those things that seems uncomfortable in theory but is actually really soothing in practice. She's also wearing this perfume that clouds itself gently around him. It's not cloying or allergy-inducing at all. In fact, it makes him feel as safe as this library does. Something just sweet and subtle.

"It's nice that you're reading something different," she says, snuggling closer so now she's basically in his lap. "What's this, D.H. Lawrence?" Lenore traces a finger down the length of the page, pointing something out. He can't really hear what she's saying because there's this weird buzzing in his ears.

God, why is his body malfunctioning like this? They're just _reading_.

***

H.G. floats into the library the next morning and discovers Lenore in the armchair, legs flung over the side, reading a fashion magazine. "Hey!" she says. "I had the best idea. Why don't you read to me?"

"Why would you want to do that?" H.G. asks.

Lenore rolls her eyes and puts the magazine down next to the chair. It lands with a little _flop_. "Oh my gooooood, don't be so self-deprecating! That's not a good look for you, either." She grins, beckoning him closer. "Read me that book you had yesterday."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," H.G. responds. He can feel the backs of his ears getting hot.

"Because?"

"It's, um."

Lenore squeals in delight. "Is it a _sexy_ book, H.G.?"

"No!" H.G. responds and then realizes that he probably sounds way too defensive. "It's a classic."

She bends over (he tries not to look) and picks up the book from underneath her magazine. "Hmm. _Lady Chatterley's Lover_. Seems pretty sexy to me."

The heat has now spread from his ears to his face. H.G. swallows, and the wet, sticky sound seems overly loud in the tiny quiet space of the library. There's just something so private and intimate about sharing what you've read and enjoyed with someone else, unsure if they'll respond the way you want them to.

He sits down cautiously, but Lenore has no such hesitations. She sits back down, in his lap properly this time. And she snuggles in so that she's nestled in his arms and he has to reach around her to hold the book, so he's hugging her while he reads. She's so physical, so much more so than he's ever been. As if she's actually comfortable in her body and not feeling suspended, awkward, at all times.

"Um," H.G. begins. Her body is so warm and soft, pressed in against his. Lenore has tilted a little so her hair brushes up against his chin and the perfume she wears cloaks him once more. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Maybe where you left off?" Lenore suggests, a teasing bent to her voice.

He clears his throat. Oh, god. "'It had a thrill of its own,'" he starts. His voice cracks on the last word. "'...a queer vibrating thrill inside the body...'" H.G. stops. "I'm really not sure I can do this."

"Sure you can," Lenore returns. "Just relax."

Relaxing has never been one of H.G.'s strong points, but he tries. He steadies himself, lets himself feel Lenore against him. For some reason that's really reassuring. Finally, he wills his voice to get steady: low, deep, and even. "'...a final spasm of self-assertion, like the last word, exciting, and very like the row of asterisks that can be put to show the end of a paragraph, and a break in the theme.'"

"You have a nice reading voice," Lenore comments. "Like, really nice."

He realizes that she's squirming a little and keeps going, describing Connie and her self-actualization. "Mmmhm?" Lenore makes this little moaning sound, clamped off behind tight, folded lips. "What then?"

H.G. pauses. Silence now, headed for the new and unfamiliar. Then he snatches his arms away and snaps the book shut before floating over to the shelves so he can put it away.

"Hey!" Lenore protests, floating after him. "Why did you stop?"

"I - " H.G. can't really explain it. Caught between wanting this so badly and afraid of what would happen if it did. Lenore is just so close, now. She touches his face gently and he surprises himself when he doesn't back away.

"Is it ok if I kiss you?" Lenore asks. "Because I really, really want to."

He's not sure why she'd like to do that, but he really, really wants her to as well.

When she leans in and kisses him for the first time, it's not the fairytales and fireworks he was hoping for or expecting. It's dry and awkward, just the faintest brushing of lips. She pulls away and looks at him. Evaluative, and maybe a bit disappointed. He's disappointed, too.

"Let's try that again," she suggests, and he's surprised to find that she sounds shy.

"Ok," he says, equally hesitant.

She kisses him properly, then. Warm and tantalizing and slightly sticky: she's wearing lipstick, which makes her lips drag against his in this slow, shivery way. He lets his hands drift up to hold her hips and press her in closer against him. This makes him feel her smile against his mouth. Her hands were holding his at her hips, but now she loops them around his neck, bending up to kiss him. They don't have that much of a height difference, he realizes, so she doens't have to lean up so far. It's like they fit together. She rubs her lips against his, slow and careful to coax his mouth open so she can slide her tongue in against his, sucking gently. He whimpers.

Lenore pulls away after several minutes of kissing, but even that feels too soon. She wipes her mouth off and looks up at him. Her lipstick is all kissed off and her mouth looks a bit swollen, used. He's still holding onto her.

"Yeah," she says. "Much better."

***

The next time they meet in the library, he's bolder. This time he's the one to pull her into his lap, delighting in her little squeak of surprise.

They spend what feels like hours kissing. He likes kissing Lenore because she's so _good_ at it. Her tongue slides so smoothly against his. Tracing his teeth, finding that pocket of space underneath his tongue. Like she's uncovering every part of him. Like she's going to swallow him whole. He really wouldn't mind it if she did: he's completely harnessed, caught in her orbit.

Eventually he reluctantly stops and begins reading to her. He's grown more comfortable, now, pitching his voice exactly the way she seems to like it, all deep and confident so that she grinds back against him.

He's never thought of himself as sexy before.

It's a nice feeling.

***

"..." H.G. closes the book gently. "I think that's enough for today."

Lenore sighs, impatient. "Ok," she says finally. "If you say so."

She follows him to the bookshelf and leans in, talking to him aimlessly while he scans the shelves for the gap where he left the book last. Lenore is close enough that his arm brushes up over the curve of her breast as he reaches to put the book away. Her eyes turn wide, glassy. He can feel her shudder.

"Can you -" Lenore starts, then pauses. She swallows (wet sticky sound). "Can you do that again?"

H.G. looks at her quizzically. "Do what? Should I read more of this to you?" He reaches back up to grab the book and she whimpers - full-on whimpers. He doesn't think he's heard anyone make that sound before, much less Lenore. It's a pleading sort of noise that urges him on - he drags his hand slowly against her breast on his way to get the book, if only to hear her make that sound again.

Which she does, in several short bursts. "Like that?" he asks. "Is this what you wanted?"

"No, I..."

"Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do." For some reason his voice comes out all low and dark - the way it sounds when he's really settled into reading to her. This time Lenore doesn't whimper, but moans instead.

Now he drops the book, ignores the resulting thud, and puts his hands on her breasts at last. Cupped, at first, then squeezing gently. Lenore twists herself into his hands. So he must be doing something right, even if he feels like he's going in blind.

"Touch me," Lenore says softly. "For real."

"I am?" H.G. asks, confused. He feels awkward now, both hands just frozen on her breasts. Somewhere under his fingertips he can feel the echo of her heart, as if it's been revived by memory. It flutters, trapped like some tiny and hopeful bird.

Lenore sighs. H.G. can't tell if she's annoyed or aroused. Maybe both. She takes his hands away and shimmies a little so that the straps of her dress slide down her shoulders to hang loosely at her sides.

H.G. swallows (wet sticky sound). He's familiar with what breasts look like in theory, but this is just - wow. She looks up at him, expectant, and guides his hands back over her breasts again.

Oh.

Her skin is so smooth, so warm and soft, so - there are probably other adjectives in there somewhere but he can't really think too clearly right now. He lets his hands wander, exploratory, paying attention to what makes her squirm, what makes her moan. In a hidden area of his mind he thinks that they really shouldn't be doing this here, in some corner of a not-quite library, where anyone could find them.

But he's also tracing his fingertips under the swell of Lenore's breasts, now, so those thoughts don't seem that important at the moment.

She looks up at him, her eyes big and dark. She has long eyelashes. He never noticed that before. Funny how small details suddenly become so important. Her eyelids fall shut, then, and she pushes back up into his hands with a little whimpery sigh. Lenore's own hands open/close, open/close at her sides.

"Is this - is this right?" H.G. asks, hesitant.

"It's perfect," Lenore assures him, blushing. "It's -" He smooths his fingers over her nipples and she squeaks, shudders again. "Oh my god. Oh my god."

She seems dizzy. H.G. jerks his hands away, concerned. "No, don't stop -" Lenore corrects, so he doesn't. He goes back to softly rubbing at her nipples, marveling at how her skin can be somehow stiff and pliant at the same time.

"I want you to feel," Lenore says eventually, after it seems like he's spent (could spend) an eternity doing this, "what you're doing to me."

She squirms again, but in a different way. He looks down and sees that a little scrap of fabric is sliding its way down her legs to gather at her feet. She steps out of them: the small arch of one foot, then the other. Her feet are bare and he thinks suddenly, wildly, that this is important somehow. That it makes her vulnerable.

He puts his hand over hers over her heart (where her heart should be), both of them feeling the little pulse there. Lenore reaches up to his neck, and he raises his to meet it, feeling his hand over her hand over his own little beat.

They just stand there, looking at each other. Her fingertips are so gentle, ghosting on his skin. He is lost, then. The blur of tulle and lace, tiny floral details, Lenore: her brown hair gently curling against her neck. She moans his name, soft against his mouth, and guides his hand down between her legs. Open, show. Warm getting hot little fire. Lenore floated into his life as a feminine force of nature, but this feels the most feminine of all: soft brush of hair, soft skin, a little knotch that feels sensitive when he touches it. Her quiet little moans, gasping up.

H.G. looks down again to see that her skin is rosy pink against his pale white fingers. It makes it seem like she's blushing here, too. Her hand on his wrist. Her very core, dripping down his fingers to smear into his palm. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.

Her muscles spasm and catch on his fingers. She tightens her eyebrows in surprise, gasping, and pushes herself onto his hand all drippy. He wonders if he could do that to her again, so he keeps going. Curling his fingers inside her is much easier now because she's all wet. Twisting, sliding up into her, wanting to feel her seize against him over and over. Her thighs are shaking. Lenore reaches back, scrabbling the hand that isn't tight around his wrist at the bookshelf for purchase.

This reaction of hers keeps going, and he can anticipate each little one just before it happens: she tenses up inside, in a tight flex that extends out before it builds into tremoring muscles that grip at his fingers.

They reach some kind of conclusion as her muscles squeeze against him in slowly receding waves. He withdraws his hand and she lets her skirt fall back down. They're both panting.

Something between them has grown, or maybe broken, now.

***

Annabel is coming to visit. Which makes Edgar even more awkward and obsessive. He wants to make sure that everything is Perfect. So he runs around ignoring some things and crashing into others. He spends hours picking out the china, only to abandon his choice at the last minute, reconsider, and go back to what he thought of earlier. "Lather, rinse, repeat," Lenore comments to H.G. lowly. They're both hovering in the doorway to the dining room, trying to stay out of the way. Whenever Edgar starts muttering to himself, it's a good idea to just avoid him. Right now he's talking to the silverware as if it's personally betrayed him.

Lenore rolls her eyes and frowns, retreating into herself as they watch Edgar scurry around the dining room table, forks clutched and clattering in his hand.

"Can you read to me?" Lenore asks quietly.

"Sure," H.G. responds, not sure if that's some kind of code. Either way he wants to accept, will do anything to make her happy.

On impulse, he takes her hand while they float off to the library. They sit down in the armchair and he snuggles her into his arms. "Is everything ok?" he asks.

"No," Lenore admits. "Edgar has just been kind of a dick to me lately because Annabel is just So Important. It's not the first time, and won't be the last, but it still kind of hurts. And it makes me feel lonely."

"You're not alone," H.G. promises. He's never seen Lenore upset before and it tugs at this deep part of himself that he didn't really know existed before now.

"Ok," Lenore says, voice small.

She presses her lips to his neck and he shivers. He never knew that could be such a sensitive place, so he gasps when Lenore starts biting him - only a little, the slight press of her teeth to his skin - but enough that he groans. Lenore massages his skin with her lips, even as her teeth worry at him. He keeps a very concentrated focus on the slurpy, sucky sounds she's making as she pulls her mouth on his neck.

She reaches down, then, and he feels her hand gripping him - gently at first, then firmly. He groans because it feels so good, but also because it's _Lenore_ : her look of concentration and the rhythmic motion of her forearm as she pushes and adjusts herself.

"I don't think we're reading anymore," he pants.

She laughs into his neck. "I think we stopped doing that a long time ago."

Her hand is so warm. He can feel the heat of it, even through his trousers. She slides slowly up, falling back down, feeling out the shape of him and pushing the fabric against his oversensitive skin.

"Uh -" he huffs out a breath, trying to keep himself from just thrusting into her hand. "I think we should - mmmpf - I think we should stop - Annabel is going to be here any minute and Edgar will want to know where we are."

"If you insist," Lenore responds, but she doesn't stop (he doesn't want her to stop).

She kisses him to muffle his whimpering moans as he twitches in her hand. "I need to go get changed," Lenore says softly, coaxing him out of it. His trousers feel all sticky now. She grins, a tiny little quirk of her mouth. "You might want to also."

***

Giggling and loud pop music means that Annabel is here at last. H.G. looks at himself in the mirror for a moment, not quite ready to venture out there and see Lenore yet. The mark she gave him is half-hidden by his shirt collar. He touches it - the mark is warm under the pads of his fingers.

He's got clean trousers on now, but he can almost still feel it in sense memory. The wetness, all sudden. Pulsing helplessly in Lenore's hand. It makes him feel selfish. Before it was all for her, existing only for her pleasure. So now the idea that she might want him that badly, want him to feel pleasure, too, is surreal.

H.G. gets out a little tin of pomade and combs his hair into place. He's dawdling, he knows that. For half a beat he considers styling his hair completely differently, considers wearing some other kind of outfit.

But it seems that Lenore likes him exactly the way he is. Which is another bizarre, jarring thought. He squares his shoulders, takes a last look at himself in the mirror, and heads outside.

The pop music is louder now that he's in the hallway. He never realized that he was right under Lenore's room in the attic. As he drifts into the dining room, he can hear a crash and frantic footsteps, but mostly loud, buoyant laughter.

Edgar, of course, is not laughing. H.G. actually can't remember a time that he's ever heard Edgar laugh. "They're late," Edgar says. He stands with his arms folded, staring morosely over the spread on the dining table that he worked so hard to make.

Which is, obviously, the cue for them to arrive.

Annabel floats in first and gives Edgar a kiss. It leaves a red print that he touches self-consciously, a smile playing around his mouth. "H.G.!" Annabel exclaims, floating over to say hello. They hug in that awkward friends-of-friends way. It's mercifully brief.

"Sorry, Eddy," Lenore says as she floats in. H.G. swallows a gulp. Yeah, he always knew objectively that Lenore is gorgeous, but this is on a whole other level. It's like she's lit herself up from the inside out, but the funny thing is that he can't pick up on anything super different about her appearance. She's wearing the same dress she always does because that's ghost protocol or something - she explained the mechanics to him once, but he never got it. And her hair is done only slightly differently: it's twisted up on top of her head. (It's a style that looks rather complicated, so that's probably what she and Annabel were spending most of their time doing upstairs.)

Really, though, he feels like he's seeing her for the first time.

"I had a hair emergency. You know how it is," Lenore is saying. Her voice sounds like it's coming from very far away, and every gesture is in slow motion. She hugs Edgar and he sits down and immediately begins talking to Annabel. Then she looks at H.G. and there's a beat too long while he snaps out of his little reverie. H.G. considers several different options (a hug? a kiss? a handshake?) but none of them seem quite right and besides now they're all waiting for him.

This is a date. Except it's not a date. Except it totally is. Annabel and Edgar are completely lost in their own tiny world. It seems like every tiny thing that Edgar says is hilarious, because Annabel is spending a lot of time laughing and finding little excuses to touch his arm.

Which leaves Lenore and H.G. to their own devices. He has no idea where to start. He could tell her she's beautiful, but that word doesn't even begin to cover how she looks to him. There are so many feelings swimming confusedly in his head that he ends up saying none of them.

It works out, though, because Lenore is chatty enough for both of them.

***

Their time together is awkward, now. That kind of dance when they run into each other in the hall - moving now left, now right, together until one of them kind of laughs and brushes past the other. There are so many shared glances and lingering touches during dinner that H.G. thinks that they're starting to give Annabel and Edgar a run for their money. He often gets so absorbed in what Lenore is saying that he just ends up dropping his cutlery, or clattering dishes. The girls laugh at him, but he knows that it's not a mean laugh - he can hear the teasing, happy tone now.

He feels like there has to be some kind of acknowledgement of what's been going on. And he knows that he has to do this right. Reading doesn't seem to be enough for this, so he turns to the other thing that helps: inventing.

This plan he's beginning to formulate is risky on a number of levels, but it's worth it, because it's all for her. He writes out diagrams, charts, even a few maps. He breaks his goggles but uses them anyway. He goes without his routine of breakfast and books. This is more important.

Instead, his reading time is research time. Because research is fun: it's soothing, measured. H.G. has the Dewey Decimal system memorized, and now is the best time to use it. He spends his time in a daze of coffee and textbooks and engine parts, trying to figure out how it all works together.

He's going to make himself corporeal, if only for a moment (because he's hoping a moment is all he needs).

While he's working, H.G. gets a flash of inspiration. He remembers something that couples used to do when they were in school. (The idea of him and Lenore as a couple makes him blush, although neither she nor Annabel are there to comment on it.)

His hands are shaking as he types out the telegram. And his palms are so sweaty that they keep slipping off the machine. Finally, though, he manages to type a simple note, asking his dear Lenore if she will join him in the garden under this tree at such and such a time. Then he asks Edgar to deliver it - securing it in an envelope first, of course, although Edgar isn't particularly nosy. H.G. still wants to make sure that everything is perfect. Because he knows that Lenore isn't one to do things by halves, so he can't, either.

That small task done, H.G. returns to his machine. The clank of parts and gears fitting together is satisfying. And with a disgruntled wheeze, his machine is finally complete. There's an underwhelming zapping noise, and then -

He's back in his body. Or at least, the body he is always in, just more...solid, he supposes. He's landed on the floor with an alarming thud. Oh. Right. He can't float right now. It's surreal, this sensation of being so completely -

Alive.

H.G. takes big, gulping breaths and stands up. It's weird: all of his senses are heightened. The world is brighter. He can feel things instead of passing through them. (Which is exactly the point of this whole exercise.)

He takes a step and lurches, just because he's not floating. He hadn't realized how used to his other life he was. And he knows without a doubt that he wouldn't want to go back to this, because being a ghost is what brought him to Lenore.

So he walks, very carefully, out of the house and into the garden. There are flowers everywhere, and he's not completely sure which ones are Lenore's favorites. Thankfully, he's got a few other ideas for backup. It takes him some time to get used to actually holding a flower without having to concentrate really hard first. The scrape of thorns, the slightly waxy texture of a stem. Petals as they fall.

Time ticks back - he did only have a moment, after all - and he can feel himself returning to weightlessness. His breathing slows and becomes only a fixture of habit.

"H.G.?" he hears Lenore call.

Ok, right. He can do this. He can totally do this. He can -

And then Lenore floats around the tree and he almost drops the flowers because she's so beautiful. It's a sunny day, so her hair has caught the light, making her brown hair seem almost golden in certain places.

"What's up?" she asks. Then she looks from him to the flowers and back again.

It's warm out, isn't it? That's probably why he's blushing so much. He's just overheating a little bit, is all. Nothing to do with Lenore slowly taking the bouquet, her hands warm against his for the briefest of touches.

"Um, these - these are, uh, kind of for you," he explains lamely.

"You are the sweetest," Lenore responds, burying her nose in the flowers and inhaling deeply. A little bumblebee buzzes cheerfully past.

"Because." H.G. clears his throat. She looks up at him, expectant. "I wanted to - I mean, that is, I feel like we're doing this almost out of order and I - I guess I just really like spending time with you and I wanted you to know that." Then he explains the invention - how it helped him pick the flowers more safely - and she throws her arms around him.

"Nice job on the flower language thing, too, you adorable nerd," she says, pulling away.

"You noticed?" he asks.

She smiles and gives him a little kiss. "You're Victorian, I'm Victorian. We pick up on these things. C'mon, I'm gonna go put these in water."

He follows her into the kitchen and floats nearby while she fills a vase. He's not really quite sure what to do with his hands - first in his pockets, then clasped together - and ends up settling for folding his arms. Lenore fluffs out the bouquet and seems satisfied. "There. I'll just put these in my room, then..."

She gives him a meaningful glance.

H.G. has been in the attic only once or twice before. It seems like it's gotten even messier in the interim. She's got shoes everywhere and little bottles of perfume and makeup and a hundred other girly things that he won't even claim to know or understand.

Lenore is his anchor in the middle of it all. She sets the bouquet on a little vanity, in amongst those boxes and bottles, and kisses him properly. The flowers - white violet, aster, daisy, morning glory - fade from view, like something out of those movies he saw once at the nickelodeon.

The only thing that matters is the sweet, steady rhythm of her lips on his. She presses tight against him, both of them holding onto each other, keeping each other steady as the kiss goes on and on. But that's the thing, H.G. somehow manages to think, in the small part of his mind that isn't completely taken up with Lenore. It's not really one kiss. It's one after the next in increasing urgency. Carried along by feeling, he touches the tiny buttons of her dress, the lace detailing just above her skirt: he just wants to memorize everything about her. His world narrows to the meeting of fabric and skin: one hand slid under the strap of her dress, the other at the back of her neck. With every kiss he just wants _more_ , and it seems like there is; he could do this forever and not get bored.

He realizes now that she's not holding onto him anymore - she's got her hand on his trousers, the zipper, his belt - and with great self-control he pushes her hand away. There's time for him later, but right now he just needs her.  Her beautiful face, smiling up at him. Her breathless giggles and the way she whisper-moans his name. He likes the way she says his name. Like it's a plea, like it's perfect.

When she shuffles out of her dress, it's the most natural thing in the world. He stops only a moment to admire, and she smirks at him. They work together so well: every time she twists on his hand, he shifts it to meet her, making her squeeze and flex on him over and over. Yet he still feels unsure, like the way she's whimpering (almost crying, really, getting all desperate and incoherent) isn't real.

"Don't," she manages to say somehow, breath hitching as she contracts on him again. "Just - be here with me?"

Her eyes are downcast, now, and her long eyelashes make a tiny shadow.

He can feel her juicy-wet on his hand as he slides it back out of her slowly. She sighs like she misses him. His fingers are sticky, glistening, before he wipes them off on his trousers.

Bizarrely, he wants to know what she tastes like. So he kneels down in front of her and gently holds her hips. Somewhere far away, he can hear her shuddery breaths, all staccato while he kisses at her damp curls before slowly sliding his tongue up through her folds to hit that tiny bump of skin that seems to cause so much trouble.

_Be here with me._

He reaches it and gives it a slow, sucking kiss - more out of curiosity than anything else - and feels her muscles spasm against his mouth. She whimpers and her hands come to rest in his hair, pulling tight. It seems like he's doing this right, but he looks up just to make sure. Her forehead is slightly creased and she's biting her lip, but the expression in her eyes is one of pure love.

It inspires him to keep going. He slides his tongue back down, in a clean line, and slides it inside her so he can feel her drip onto his tongue. He's caught up in it: the way she smells, the way she _tastes_. Like fruit, or something warm and soft and dark, maybe slightly soapy, but overall a quality that is so completely Lenore that he can't describe it.

_Be here with me._

Up close like this, he can see that she isn't just tastes, she's colors, too. Red, yes, but only at her core. She fades into red from plummy pink to orange red to dark, swollen pink red. He runs his tongue along each of these colors, tracing where she changes like he's painting. Finding where she's most sensitive and where she likes it best. He learns quickly: she's got one hand cradling the back of his head, the other still fisted tightly still in his hair, directing him.

He's dizzy from wanting to keep going, to feel her tighten up and then pitch forward into quivery muscles all nervy-raw against his mouth, a sensation that leaks more of her sweetness for him to taste. She's shaking, panting. He can see tiny tears at the corners of her eyes, all tangled up in those long eyelashes of hers. Lenore slowly releases her hands from his hair and moves them down to cup his face and tilt it up towards hers.

"You're a mess," she says softly, running her fingers over his lips. They drag a little, just because he's so sticky. He swallows and can taste the last of it, although he knows that his sense memory will keep this and treasure it for a long time.

_Be here with me._

He wonders why he thought was anywhere else.

**Author's Note:**

> [Saucy telegrams were a real thing.](http://gizmodo.com/young-people-used-these-absurd-little-cards-to-get-laid-1751387386)  
>   
>  Thank you to [elphaba-in-the-tardis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ElphabaInTheTardis) for the flowers idea and for characterization help/confirmation.  
>  
> 
> Floriography used:   
> White violet: Let's take a chance  
> Aster: Symbol of love  
> Daisy: Loyal love, gentleness, innocence  
> Morning Glory: Affection


End file.
